'Advance to Contact' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  All three of the helicopters had dropped on the missile firing submarines, sinking one and driving off the other, but they needed reloads and the Jeanne d'Arc’s captain nodded his consent to the ASWO when the request was made to land close to the undamaged bow and replenish there.

  The Sea Kings paused to lift survivors, NATO survivors; from the water although there was a Russian submariner amongst the rescued, no deliberate effort was made to seek them out. The NH-50s pilots flew directly toward the carrier, determined to make certain that the submarine that had escaped them so far, paid the ultimate price.

  Smoke and steam was billowing from the huge rent in the Jeanne d'Arc’s flight deck as they approached, but the vessel was still moving back toward the protection of the air defence capable ships at full speed. The carrier was making 22knots but the phosphorescent finger that NH-90s co-pilot could see pointing at her stern, was travelling at 40knots. He radioed a frantic warning to the carrier, but although she was a fraction of the size of the US super-carriers, she couldn’t turn like a speedboat. Jeanne d'Arc bucked with the impact against her port screw, losing way and beginning a turn to starboard caused by damage to her rudder. In the engine room, the chief engineer had sustained a broken collarbone, having been thrown off his feet by the explosion. Live steam was roaring from a fractured line and a rent in the hull plates was admitting the sea. None of his staff had avoided injury; several had broken ankles caused by the concussion transferring itself through the deck. The starboard engine bearings were cracked and the assembly was tearing itself apart. By the time he had gathered his wits he was already lying in several inches of seawater. Throughout the ship lights flickered and then died, as electrical power was lost, to be replaced by the sparse glow of battery powered back-ups. All that could be heard were the calls for help from the injured, until officers and senior rates got busy. With no power to pump water around the system, the mist of water issuing from the sprinklers in the hangar deck slowed, and then stopped. Flames that had been fighting for survival against the limited oxygen and cooling water vapour gained vigour, taking fresh hold. The damage control party inside the hangar deck held hoses grown limp with the loss of water pressure so they dropped them and took up hand held foam and dry powder extinguishers, using them on the flames until they ran dry, which did not take long. The water level in the engine room had risen above waste level on the port side of the compartment, and above the knees on the starboard side. With only the dim glow of the back-up lighting to guide them they dragged themselves and each other to safety when the chief engineer ordered his men and women out. The ships telephone system went off line when the generators died, so internal communication passed to handheld radios and runners, carrying reports to and from. The captain had a scalp wound and broken wrist from being thrown against a bulkhead when the torpedo had struck. He had called up the Charles de Gaulle again, reporting their new situation, the report was simply acknowledged, no help was offered, and none asked for, the Task Force was fighting for its life.

  The fire-fighting in the hangar deck came to an abrupt halt as the list to port continued, aviation fuel and oil, pooled in buckled deck plates flowed down hill out of the puddles. The foam had held their flammable fumes in check until that point, and with a roar the hangar space became an inferno engulfing the damage control party in their silver fire suits. From his position on the bridge, the Jeanne d'Arc’s captain had been previously gratified to see only smoke, occasionally illuminated by flickering flames appearing from the gaping wound on the hangar deck. He was, quite understandably, very busy with the business of saving his ship, and so it was a few minutes before he noticed the light cast against the blacked-out bridges side, that of the orange glow of flames. Leaning over the bridge wing he looked for the source of the light, and his face fell when he saw the evilly glowing pit in the flight deck, as ugly as the gates of hell.

  With no water to fight the flames they soon spread to the aft bulkhead, tongues of fire played through the rents against the fuel cells, stripping away the fire retardant layer and igniting the rubber walls behind it. Fifteen minutes after the torpedo had struck, the first fuel cell exploded, triggering a chain reaction as it burst open the remainder. The forty-one year old warship shuddered and rocked as the explosions tore through her, roiling fireballs arose above the gallant French warship and she began to blow herself apart.

  With the coming of dawn the attacks ended, one NATO destroyer, two frigates and three corvettes lay on the bottom. The Polish frigate General K. Pulaski had been abandoned to the fire, and the smoke from those fires was visible to all the surviving ships in the Task Force from beyond the horizon.

  Jeanne d'Arc’s bow was still visible above the waves, but gradually sinking to join the rest of its 12,000-ton bulk hidden below the surface. Not until he was absolutely certain that the attacks had finished would Admiral Bernard take any helicopters off ASW duties, and allow them to search for survivors. The Task Force had sunk nineteen soviet boats, but twenty-three nuclear powered and diesel electric submarines had broken out and were heading for the GIUK Gap, the last barrier before the Atlantic sea-lanes. It was now down to the P-3s from Iceland, the Royal Navy ASW group and the US and Canadian submarines coming up from the south, to stop them.

  CHAPTER Three

  North of Magdeburg, Germany: 0519hrs, 11th April.

  At precisely 0330hrs the soviet bombardment of the island had ceased and its fires switched to the positions beyond it, but it was lighter than expected. NATO counter battery fire and air strikes had thinned out the Red Army gun lines to an extent. Being posted to a towed artillery unit had become a death sentence, unless the crews were top rate, counter battery radar, MSTARS, JSTARS and communications systems passing the firing positions to the batteries.

  JSTARS and 3(UK) Mechanised HQ hadn’t thought they had scored so well, no multiple rocket systems were amongst the enemy batteries firing on them, but they were not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth. Another element that was missing was airpower, there had been no airstrikes so far, so perhaps the losses up north had hurt them more than they knew, or, it was being preserved for something yet to come.

  Major Popham and the Guards RSM, Barry Stone had moved out of the battalion CP taking signallers and an MFC, mortar fire controller with them, and set up shop in a custom built bunker, circa 1940’s, that had been uncovered by the JCBs digging fresh positions. It was damp, stank of mould, but it had five feet of reinforced concrete around it, it made Jim wonder if his Grandfather had been involved in its construction before his slave labour gangs turn had come for the gas chamber. It was ironic that he was in part fighting for the country that had all but ended his family’s history in the death camps sixty years before.

  By splitting the battalion command element they hoped to avoid the disaster that had befallen the Guards in their first defensive action, either half could run the fight if the other were taken out.

  It was bitterly cold so for once the charcoal lined ‘Noddy suits’ were welcome, keeping out the unseasonable chill, still though they all sat with arms wrapped around chests and knees drawn up while the shells fell around them.

  With nothing much to do except wait, the airborne soldier from Orange County, California and the WO1 from Nether Silton on the North Yorkshire Moors exchanged views on life, past experiences and soldiers anecdotes. Both were large men, and their bulky clothing and NBC respirators gave them bug like appearances.

  “I was a boy soldier, joined up at fifteen.” Barry told him. “I remember the RSM at the first camp I was at, Park Hall, he was this God like figure that young squaddies like me used to steer well clear of, I thought he was a right bastard until one day I was on barrack snatch…that means guard duty.” Barry paused as a salvo of shells landing particularly close, shook the walls of their bunker, after a few moments he continued. “There was this twelve foot fence, topped with barbed wire around the perimeter and me and my mate were walking around on fire piquet when we saw this guy f
rom C Company trying to go absent. He’d climbed on the roof of one of the ‘spiders’ and was trying to swing over the fence on a rope tied to the branch of a tree, but he kept bottling out, wouldn’t let go the rope once it had swung over the far side. Well we were watching him for a couple of minutes when my mate nudged me and pointed. Stood in the shadows was this RSM, Terrance was his name, Regimental Sergeant Major Terrence, Scots Guards, big bloke. He had a pencil and note pad out, his pace-stick tucked under one arm, and he was counting softly as he kept count in the notebook,

  “In barracks…out of barracks…in barracks…out of barracks.” Eventually he nicked the C Company guy and charged him with nine counts of being absent without leave during a ten-minute period. It was the first time I ever saw a sense of humour in a warrant officer.”

  The American major and the signallers chuckled, for the Coldstreamers present it was their first view of the man who lay behind the stern exterior of the ferocious ‘Baz the Raz’. “Today,” he announced whilst producing a bottle of scotch. “Is my birthday, and to mark this occasion, you may all have a drink on me…just a swig mind” He said in warning to the junior ranks present, and passed the bottle around once he had checked the detector paper indicted nothing nasty in the atmosphere.

  “How old are you Sarn’t Major?” Jim Popham asked him.

  RSM Stone smiled back, his eyes screwing up behind the respirator visors, the only part of his face that was visible. “Old enough to remember when sex was safe and flying was dangerous, sir.”

  Grinding along towards the battalions rear through the mud were two British FV 432s in the armoured ambulance role, a pair of figures preceded them, using night goggles to pick out the nearest trench. Once they had memorised its position they took off the goggles and stuffed them inside their smocks and put on their respirators.

  Secured to their backs were British Army issue SA-80s, an unsatisfactory piece of equipment in their view, but when in Rome… With their approach the enemy fires shifted, concentrating on the battalions forward positions.

  Major Venables small battlefield radar screen showed the approaching vehicles, and he peered over at the tank to his right, a Chieftain with the job of covering that arc. He didn’t need to ask if they had seen them, he could see the big gun traversing slowly as it tracked them.

  As the newcomers approached the trench PFC Luis Pinterelli eased off the safety catch of his M-16, beside him his partner took careful aim with a SAW, squad automatic weapon. Luis waited until they were clear of cover to duck behind and then challenged them.

  When an American voice ordered them to halt it confused both of the approaching figures, their intelligence clearly stated that a British Mechanised Brigade held this area.

  “Nine.”

  “Twenty,” the figure on the right answered, and took a pace forward, but Luis wasn’t sure about these people, the casevac, casualty evacuation, plan was always for the wounded to be taken to the casualty collection point by the injured men’s own unit. Even in the darkness the red crosses on a white field, on the APCs sides could be made out.

  “Hold up there…just you wait there a while, I ain’t finished wid yuze fellas yet. Whadya doin’ here?”

  “You got casualties, we were sent down from brigade to fetch them.”

  Luis reached for a field telephone, keeping his weapon pointing at the two men stood before the APCs, and then a third figured appeared, emerging from the rear of the nearest APC.

  “What’s the delay here?” a female voice commanded as its owner strode forwards. Luis got an answer from his own platoon CP but the newcomer was striding past the two other figures.

  “Hold on lieutenant…Hey, stand still there!”

  His shout drowned out the metallic ring of a grenades spring-arm flying off.

  It takes training and confidence to hang onto an armed grenade for the couple of seconds required for it to explode almost as soon as it lands, robbing the target of reaction time.

  Team Five commanders right hand came forward in almost a casual fashion, tossing the grenade underarm into the foxhole and diving to the left as she did so. Luis dropped the phone and fired a wild burst one handed at the figure that had thrown something into their hole, the SAW next to him hammered at the two shapes behind, scoring solidly on the slower of the pair, but then the grenade in their hole went off.

  From their positions out of sight behind the second FV432, two more figures stepped into the open, placing a 9M111 system on the ground between the two APCs and dropped down either side of it, firing a second later.

  Major Venables had been watching through his Challengers viewing blocks, but was taken completely by surprise by the sudden automatic fire.

  “Damn…” grabbing the commander’s override he began to traverse the main gun to the right whilst keying his radio, and then his flanking Chieftain was struck by a missile, exploding immediately.

  “Contact, contact, contact…enemy infantry in the rear, British army uniforms and 432 armoured ambulances!” Men were boiling from the rear of the two APCs and running into the position.

  “Gunner, take over…target APCs, two 432s!” Major Venables undogged the hatch and pulled himself up, grasping the pintle mounted GPMG he swung it toward the APCs, cocked it and let loose with three sustained bursts at where he thought the anti-tank weapon had been fired from. In reply, a bright light first robbed him of all his night vision, and then an explosion deafened him as well. The Spetznaz crew had attached a fresh launch tube when the tank officer appeared; the probing fire killed the loader and wounded the gunner who squeezed off the round in reaction to being hit. Streaking across the intervening space it struck the top of the earthen berm, in which the Challenger was sitting and exploded.

  When the grenade went off team five commanders jumped over the foxhole and knelt, groping about until she found the telephone cable. On being joined by members of her teams she turned and ran into the NATO position, the cable running through her fingers, it would lead them to a CP of some description, and from there they would find other cables leading to hopefully higher command elements.

  The tank bucked as the main gun fired, the Tungsten steel sabot round cutting straight through the vehicle and out the other side.

  “Reload HE!” yelled the gunner to the loader. Major Venables ducked back inside the turret and pulled the hatch closed after him as rounds whipped past his head, he couldn’t see a damn thing so he got out of harm’s way. The damaged 432 was apparently still operational, because the driver had put it in gear and it lurched forwards.

  “Do may a favour sir…next time you break the seal on the hatch, check the NBC sensors first, you would have killed us all if they’d dropped some of that crap along with the HE!” Venables looked uncomprehending at his Gunner, he could see the lips moving but he couldn’t hear a word. The tank bucked again and the stolen armoured ambulance blew up, but continued moving forwards for several feet.

  In the battalion CP they broadcast the warning to stay in their trenches, anyone or anything moving above ground was in play, it came too late for the depth platoon of 4 Company. Grenades flew into the platoons CP but the alerted platoon positions reacted swiftly, driving the attackers into cover and leaving three in the open, one deathly still and two threshing the ground in pain.

  Team Fives leader ducked into the freshly blown command trench, ignoring the wrecked bodies of the airborne soldiers who had occupied it. She was angry at having been given this mission, her troops were too valuable to be thrown away in such death squad actions, and not even being able to plan it properly, the time scale meant they’d had to wing it. Joining up with two other teams as instructed, they had cobbled together a rough plan, and ambushed a pair of ambulances before setting off.

  Similar attacks were taking place at other locations along the front to weaken the opposition at ideal crossing points; some of those would have the support of airborne assaults, but only the successful ones. The Red Army never reinforces failure.

&
nbsp; On the floor of the CP were two field telephones, one was smashed by the explosion, both were splattered with gore but she picked up the one which looked intact, wiped the earpiece against her leg to get rid of the blood, and tried it. She knew that chemical agents had not yet been used tonight so she put away her respirator and pulled the hood down. There was no further need for the subterfuge and the return of un-muffled hearing and 180’ vision was welcome, it gave them an advantage over the defenders. She listened without speaking as the field telephone was answered, and then cut the connection. Removing the wires from the retaining clamps, she replaced them with the ones off the smashed field phone and tried that line in the same fashion. Once it was answered she ripped the wires from the back of the phone, held the wires carefully as she raised her head to look over the parapet, whip-lashing the wires up and down she noted the direction they were running. There was a lot of firing around them, and like an infection it spread as nervous soldiers opened up on shadows, there was little being aimed in the direction of the Spetznaz troops, with any degree of accuracy anyway.

  Lt Col Reed had thrust his hands deep into his pockets when the initial contact report had come through from the armoured squadrons commander, the small arms and grenades he could now hear up top was out of proportion to that report.

  “Sarn’t Major Moore…kindly tell all units to cease firing unless in direct contact. You…signaller, call up Sunray Tango and ask him for an estimate of the enemy entering our lines.” Arnie Moore got busy on the field phones, and the signaller started typing.